


Bells

by spikewriter



Series: A Symphony of Ten [8]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2014-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-28 06:40:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2722499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikewriter/pseuds/spikewriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ask not for whom the bell tolls...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bells

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for Day Eight of my 2009 Advent Calendar. Edited for posting here.

Everywhere he went, he heard bells.

He flew the length of the Myrione Nebula, stopping at a small outpost when the fancy took him. There he walked past a traditional bridal procession, the tinkling bells of the women who accompanied the bride filling the air. He left soon after.

He visited a world wracked by storms and flood, warning bells ringing as the waters rushed in. He saved as many as he could, more than would have been saved if he hadn't been there -- but he couldn't save them all and left when the bells sounded the end of danger.

The universe was his to command and he was determined to savor it all. He matched miners drink for drink in grubby saloons, his head ringing in the morning as the alcohol started to fade in his system. He sipped cocktails as Josephine Baker took Paris by storm, then danced with her on a perfect moonlit spring night. When the bells of Sacré Cœur announced the dawn, he slipped away.

He did great deeds and wrote his legend large across the stars. There were smaller things as well, lives briefly touched, hands held for just a moment before the bells sounded and he moved on.

Finally, when the days ran into weeks and into months, growing into years, he stood on a hill as snow floated down around him, coating the world in a perfect layer of pure, peaceful white. Somewhere near here, his descendants lived, the great-great-grandchildren of his granddaughter Susan, who'd fought the Daleks and fallen in love with a human, the genetic pattern of Gallifrey the merest whisps of memory in their DNA. If he truly wanted to play god, he knew he could bring those tiny little bits to life, build a new race of Time Lords of which he was the progenitor.

But those children only knew him through family stories handed down through generations, if they knew of him at all. The picture was undoubtedly one of a kindly, if somewhat irascible, old man who'd help Earth defeat the Daleks. They had no way of knowing how truly young he'd been then, as opposed to now: old and tired, the weight of years and sorrow on his shoulders and a bitter taste in his mouth nothing in the universe could wash away.

The sound of a distant bell floated through the chill night air, a gentle call to those who dwelt in the houses now covered with snow. He heard the call and knew that for all his running, it was time.

Even as he made his way back to the TARDIS, though, the crunch of ice crystals beneath his feet, he knew this time he would not go gently or quietly.


End file.
